


A memoir

by Kiseon



Category: House of Furies - Madeleine Roux
Genre: Desk Sex, Devilish cunningulus, Did I already mention there is sex in here?, F/M, Forked and long tongue of the Devil on use, PWP, Sex but like the soft-ish type, Virgin sex but they did their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24714067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiseon/pseuds/Kiseon
Summary: “I want this,” but before he can retort, or even grin, she pulls on his hair, bringing their faces close again. Legs part even more and the heels of her naked feet end up digging onto the small of his back. She braces a hand behind her, on the desk, but it is enough to grind back, to trace him with the whole of her core. “But so doyou. So get on with it, Mr. Morningside.”
Relationships: Louisa Ditton/Henry Morningside





	A memoir

**Author's Note:**

> Upon seeing nothing but my misery in this fandom, I decided to write something. In honor of Louisa Ditton and Henry Morningside's clear sexual tension (that I might've imagined throughout three books).
> 
> I will just post this and then read it, pretending I did not write such thing.
> 
> I will fill this tag myself if I have to, no matter how many years it takes me.
> 
> Co-written with my fabulous Delta ♡
> 
> PD: I need to study more Victorian era clothing... for science.

**_Coldthistle House, a little past midnight._ **

“Wait,” She hates to admit it, _loathes_ to, but there is a quiver to her voice that was not there before. “Wait, Mr. Morningside—”

“Henry, dear Louisa,” It is annoying, _so_ annoying. He sounds playful, amused even, and all she can do is writhe under his lithe body. “I think you may call me Henry, Louisa.”

Here’s the catch: she wants this, too. He was— and _is_ right.

**_Coldthistle House, a few hours ago._ **

“Girl, you just can’t leave this late. Stop being foolish.” Louisa knows this and still, it takes great effort to eat the humble meal Mrs. Haylam poured for her, spoon by spoon and excruciating bite of bread by excruciating bite.

Past events keep her on her toes, mind ruined by invisible voices and hands holding metaphorical weapons. Even the slightest of noises elicit a flinch, forcing spooked glances that find nothing but a peaceful and sleeping house; if her kitchen companion is aware of this or not, she never gives a sign, though Louisa suspects Mrs. Haylam is just pretending to give her the cold shoulder tonight.

The old hag might have been right about the late hour departure, she knows this, but eating is out of the question for her, it seems.

Without a word, she sets the silver spoon down, trying not to think too much about spoons, and abandons the table without a look back, nor gratitude towards the woman who had spent a few minutes on the soggy meal.

Minutes find Louisa back in her room, with her hummingbird heart thumping wildly against her chest and back pressed on the closed door, as if body alone could keep the Residents out.

Mildly, she remembers seeing them outside of George Bremerton’s room, hours ago, hovering like darkened guardian angels, or dark robed, gossiping ladies trying to get their share of the new scandal. Blood and guts, is also what she remembers. The body of Lee lying beside her— and Mr. Morningside sitting nearby, as well, as if two corpses were not there in the first place. Words had been exchanged, of this she is certain of, but _what_ they had talked about remains a mystery, a foggy memory; all she wanted at the moment was bringing Lee back.

A shake of the head. No. She cannot be thinking about what had transpired few hours prior, it would be of no use.

Ignoring the rustle of clothing or how tight a corset makes her chest feel, Louisa sinks onto the creaky bed, curls up and tries to find solace on a more than uncomfortable pillow until the land of dreams takes her away.

**››››››››**

_“You work for the devil, girl, and no servant of evil is ever so innocent or naïve.”*_

_Consecutive shots are heard, none landing on her, but there is a thump, then another somewhere else, many others follow; with terrified eyes, she sees bodies strewn all around her, engulfed in darkness that has no beginning nor end. Lee’s, Mary, Poppy and Chijioke’s. Tears stop her from identifying the rest. Head turns one way and another, trying to locate where the bullets had come from, expecting to see a headless George Bremerton holding a pistol— but who she comes face to face with has golden eyes and thick eyelashes, like the lustrous feather of a crow._

_“Louisa…_ Louisa?”

Warm hands cup her head, illuminated by nothing but the dim moonlight that seeps through the faintly dusty windows nearby. Her location surely becomes clear then, when she blinks a few times. She’s right outside the green door, wearing what she had gone to sleep on and with a faint sheen of sweat on her pale forehead. Mr. Morningside is there, looking down at her with something akin to worry— though, she is not foolish enough to think him worried.

It takes a few minutes to finally calm down, aided by none other than the Devil himself, whose patience and maybe entertainment lead them both back to her quarters at a slower pace than probably necessary. He even has the audacity to laugh freely when she explains the odd dream, and upon receiving one of her sour looks, he has the decency to quiet down.

“Ah, yes, my apologies, Louisa, I often forget people actually _sleep_ in this house.” Thing is, he doesn’t sound regretful at all.

As she steps into the room, he stays a step shy away from the door. The man had no qualms accompanying her upstairs, through the corridor, but he is stopping before the bedroom door. Louisa has to wonder if that had anything to do with the Bremerton incident. And doors. Were doors the same to Mr. Morningside as spoons were to her, perhaps? Who knew. Who can even understand the man, anyway?

“You never sleep?” Idle chatting as she walks around the room, searching for her nightgown, of all things.

“Beneath the pillow, Louisa.” His voice sounds closer, but when her head turns in his direction, he is where she last saw him, if only a little closer to the door now. “I wonder… do we really sleep?” Why did she even ask, honestly? “We rest, sometimes. That’s it, I am afraid.”

Much like Mr. Morningside said, her folded nightgown rests between mattress and pillow, just as she had left it the morning, the day past. Before the buzzing on her ears can worsen, she shakes her head and hugs the flimsy and slightly yellowed garment to her chest.

“ _Right_. I think this is where we part, dear Louisa. Do get changed, those clothes look uncomfortable already and I am not even the one wearing them.” There is a scrape on the wooden planks as the man drags his feet and turns around. “Rest well.”

Louisa nods, tight grip on the gown wrinkling the poor fabric.

Even through the open door, the sound of his retreating steps is almost silent, as if he were nothing but another ghost in this massive boarding house. Momentarily, she wonders if he would indulge her childish need for company. He just said he never sleeps – or that is what she got from those words – and, maybe, she can offer her company in return, something new aside those precious birds of his, at least for one night, before she leaves this place.

“Mr. Morningside?”

“Yes, dear?” Leave it to this man to peek through the door not two seconds after, lips curved in that little, annoying smirk she is getting so used to.

Silence engulfs them, worsened by the amused glint on those cat-like eyes that sends a jolt of annoyance down her spine. She considers letting him go, only for pulling such a despicable action on her, but with the elevation of a black eyebrow, Luisa exhales and gives in.

“I was wondering if—”

“Why, of course, Louisa! You only needed to ask. I will wait outside while you change.”

She could’ve fought him, maybe tell him to go away, but with a roll of eyes, Louisa decides to simply agree that having this exasperating man as company is better than being alone, at least until she can gain some semblance of tiredness and sleep comes fast and easy.

Soon enough skirts, blouse and corset are replaced by the soft and light weight of the nightgown. Its long sleeves have pleated frills, which go well with the same pattern down below. A subtle, yet quite pretty collar hugs her throat, but is loose enough to offer comfort when she is actually sleeping; coral colored buttons run down the front, reaching midsection, yet upon tugging at them one night, she realized they were just an embellishment.

For just a moment she thinks this improper— a young girl, wearing such clothing when she is about to be accompanied by a fine gentleman in the comfortable hours of the night, a real early morn… but then, no, _what_ is even the matter. They will probably go walk around, to whenever Mr. Morningside wishes to.

Hands pat the sides of the gown before Louisa exits the room, only to find the man leaning against the wall, with his hands hidden on the coat and the back of his head against the wall. Those lustrous eyes of his lose no time to find her and, for a second, she thinks he is studying her, as if she were another one of his books.

“Tea?”

“Tea?”

“Tea, yes. I can make us a pot, come.” He does not wait for her approval and the path that was walked mere minutes ago gets walked over again, this time backwards, towards the green door.

Their silence bothers her none, not even when the green door is long forgotten and they are back on the warm and circular office she had visited maybe more times than proper. Many papers are strewn all over the desk, but Mr. Morningside gestures towards the chair in front, so Louisa takes a seat and watches the man gather papers and make small piles on every corner, some even end up near the cages of his birds, which just observe them both with sleepy eyes, the ones that are not sleeping already anyway.

“I hear you are leaving us, yes?” It is the first thing he says, when a honey-smelling tea is being poured into two heavily decorated cups.

“Indeed. I have matters to attend to.” She offers a nod of her head when he slides a cup across the desk for her. “I am certain you will soon find another maid to torment.”

There is it, the same smirk.

“Ah, you say I torment you, but clearly it is my way to show my appreciation for a job well done.”

“Uh-hu… who believes those lies, exactly? Poppy?”

Mr. Morningside feigns an offended noise, grinning lips hidden – but not completely – behind the rim of his tea cup. “I will have you know that girl is way more astute than others. She and her dog.”

“Now that you mention the dog,” Louisa leans forward, setting her cup down while elbows rest on top of the desk. Maybe he finds his own amusement mirrored on her eyes, but she is too focused on what comes next to care. “I have been wondering why on earth _you_ , of all people, allows a dog to create crates on his lawn. You are so _prim_ and proper, I have to wonder.”

This seems to make him consider for a while; he, too, leaning forward until he takes a similar position to hers, but with his cup up, pressed against his lips.

Louisa watches him, expectant.

If the dastard man were not so infuriating and conniving, maybe if she suffered the pleasure of not knowing him, she would say he is ravishing. Like the first time they met. Tall and slim, though she wonders what that three-piece suit hides beneath, thick and longer-than-average black hair curling just behind his ears, boyishly endearing to a fault. Yellow eyes that, at times, seem to read everything, yet expose nothing. A straight nose, leading right into slim, yet shapely lips—

“…and maybe that is why my Aunt Petunia hated biscuits.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“See, Louisa? This is why I can’t tell you things, you lose yourself too much, too fast.” She squints, glares even, when Mr. Morningside’s gaze turns sharper. “Though, I am no one to blame you. Many have lost their words when facing me.”

“ _Beg your pardon?_ ”

If it were even possible, his grin seems to widen, exposing perfectly white teeth and a tongue that runs across the top line. Salacious. Louisa swallows. “Are you to tell me you were looking at me, so _studiously_ , may I say, because there is something you do not like?”

Louisa’s lips part, incredulous.

“Mr. Morningside, this is just too unbecoming of you,” she quips back, slamming her cup down louder. “A real man needs no childish reassurances.”

“Ah, so you _could_ have given me a reassurance. I see.” Another time Louisa gapes at him. “And, to be fair, Louisa, I am not a man.”

“Now I remember why I should not have come.” With all the dignity a woman can have dressed in a nightgown, she stands up, pushing the chair back. “Rest _well_ , sir.”

A green door is reached in a few steps, but before she can swing it open, heat envelops her from behind and a hand that is not her own slams against the door, stopping any further movement Louisa could’ve done.

Standing, perhaps, a head and a half taller than her, Mr. Morningside feels like a shadow behind her. A very warm, very solid shadow, whose door-unoccupied hand settles on a hip.

She is reminded, then, of her inexperience on this field. Back in Pitney, there were no boys, only girls. The little experience she has on body contact comes from the many times superiors grabbed her by the wrist and hit her with a spoon. Once she escaped Pitney, all she knew were the wandering gazes of inebriated strangers, but not even once had she succumbed to need for money, nor contact, so those filthy hands strayed away from her.

But now, her heart beats beneath this man’s attention. Heat rises to her cheeks and it seems to get worse when he approaches, lowering his head so his lips hover mere inches above her ear.

“My apologies, dear Louisa, for exposing your true feelings. As flattering as they might be, it was very rude of me.” His sultry voice comes like a honeyed whisper, maybe as sweet as the tea he was sipping on. “If you wish, I can move. I can let you go. But I do not think that is what you want,” A skilled hand slides forward, caressing a clothed waist until it settles, warmly, right on her belly button. “Is it, Louisa? Is that what you want?”

“You are a monster.”

“Of that, I think, you are right.”

Maybe her consent comes soon afterwards, when the man presses closer against her backside and hands abandon everything but her body. Pinned against the door by hips alone, Louisa can feel Mr. Morningside’s touches grow bolder and his own body, hotter. There are words being whispered in her ear ( _Louisa, just say yes_ ) and questions ( _Is this what you want?_ ), but all she can focus on, for a while, is how his massive hands cup the ample mounds of her breasts above the nightgown, pinching on perky nipples between forefinger and thumb. Consent is not even vocal, but a mere nod of her head.

It is all it takes for the wheels to start turning.

The green door disappears, the hardened surface of the desk welcomes her.

At the beginning, it is hard to tell what all the tangle of limbs is, but forthwith, legs part to let him settle between them and her body bends backward when his presses forward. Those lie-creating lips don’t take long to find her neck, leaving licks and nibbles that are yet to unplease her. If all, he is pulling noises out of her throat with every swipe of tongue, or with fervent touches that end up rucking up her gown, sliding it past calves and thighs to expose her naked womanhood, one she tries to hide with subtle, yet needy squirms of her body.

This is too— _bare_ , for her.

“Wait,” She hates to admit it, loathes to, but there is a quiver to her voice that was not there before. “Wait, Mr. Morningside—”

“Henry, dear,” It is annoying, _so_ annoying. He sounds playful, amused even, and all she can do is writhe under his lithe body. “I think you may call me Henry, Louisa.”

“Mr. Morningside—” Hands press against his shoulders, pushing just a little. Cheeks feel hot, hotter than they have ever been, but to her utter shame, that same heat travels all over her body, making toes curl. “I… I can’t, I haven’t—”

“Ah, worry not, dearest.” Louisa starts to exclaim again, when all he does is slide down, apparently going to the floor, but stopping when his face pushes against a leg of hers, hands pressing on thighs and spreading legs open. The flimsy nightgown exposes nothing, but that does not mean the man’s head stops. “I have told you this before, but I am, after all, a gentleman.”

Louisa does not recall that part, but any semblance of coherence goes flying out the proverbial window. Why? For Henry Morningside’s mouth on her, scattering kisses on the inner sides of her thighs before that skilled silver tongue reaches its destiny. One Luisa was not even aware could feel that good.

“Mr. Morningside—”

“Ah, dear Louisa… I might need to teach you my name some other way.”

If she ever doubted Mr. Morningside, she regrets it now.

His licks start tentative, tongue barely spreading her labia apart, just caressing the outside and mixing his saliva with the juices that were already there. It changes considerably when the man seems to find something pleasant and next time he presses, so does his body, sending her a few inches backward on the desk.

There is a gasp stuck in her throat, a moan, one the man hums at before delving deeper. A seemingly expert – and long – tongue starts pushing in, laving at the soft ring of muscle once and again, eliciting even more noises from the red-faced woman.

Eventually, Louisa’s shame disappears, leaving behind pure, inelegant need. Frantic hands pull on the skirts of the gown, rucking it up until Mr. Morningside’s mop of black hair can be seen between her legs. What Louisa sees renders her speechless— and makes it indescribably hotter, for some reason.

After watching this same man have backward feet, witnessing other anormal body pieces appear shouldn’t come as a surprise, but when a forked and long tongue starts to explore more than an average tongue can, all she can do is toss her head back, grip onto the man’s hair and moan. He is right, as much as she hates to admit it, he is no man.

It is unholy, how she can feel his smirking lips against her, but she does. Whatever he found good between her legs only goads him to continue, until his whole mouth covers her pulsating flesh and his nose pokes at her pubis. She can swear, by everything on her name - no matter how little, that she can feel that tongue going places. It stretches her open, slowly, almost methodically. But she needs more.

“Mr. Morningside,” hazy black eyes find those amber of his, looking up at her, unmoving but clearly studying. “Please— please just… do _more_.”

Those slurping noises, the kisses and nibbles… they seem to stop. Even if it had been her wish, she laments, greatly, the loss of Mr. Morningside’s mouth scant seconds later.

“Hm, Louisa, Louisa,” The way he stands up is otherworldly, like a cat, like a ghost. His hair is disheveled, but he seems unfazed by such. If all, when a long finger hooks on the cravat and tugs, undoing it, Henry Morningside becomes ravishingly messy. The little skin exposed has Louisa swallowing, trembling hands squeezing the gown. “Spread them for me, dear. We are far from done.”

Past doubts seem to overwhelm her then and there, and even though she can still feel how wet she is beneath the skirts, there is a negative shake of the heads and legs that clamp closed.

Mr. Morningside sees this as he abandons various pieces of clothing on the floor, until all that is left are those well-fit pants and the long undershirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. The fabric is so thin, she can see the shape of his muscled chest and the inviting clavicles through the neck. There are two buttons running down, but surprising nobody, they are already undone.

By the time her eyes return to his, there is also a smile on his face.

“My my, dear Louisa. Liking what you see?” This man— this infuriating, handsome man. His hands land on the edge of the desk, trapping her legs. Next time he speaks, she can feel his breath ghosting over her lips. If he got a little bit closer, perhaps, she could taste herself in him, on his tongue. On that stupidly skilled, long— “I can be gentle, you know? I could,” A hand moves, sneaking beneath the nightgown, once again kneading the skin of her thigh and running up, until his wandering touches find now a naked breast. “Take my time. Lick you until you are dripping— _no_ , sopping wet. Until you are ready for me.”

Unbeknownst to her, he’s already moving.

Dragging her back towards the edge of the desk, where his crotch is. She can’t remember how the nightgown was pushed up and out of the way, but she can surely feel the hard line pressed up against her. She cannot make herself look, but he makes her look. With voice and poisonous words and with fingers that torture perked nipples incessantly.

“I will fit perfectly inside you, Louisa. Every inch of mine,” His lips are too close to hers and she chalks her weakness to his honeyed breath. “I am not even inside yet, and your lips are stretching so beautifully around me.”

It is quite true.

The fabric of Mr. Morningside’s pants is soaked already and her labia spreads around the shape of his member.

“Louisa… just tell me you want this, too.”

Oh, he knows this. He has to know this.

“Mr. Morningside…”

“Never once have I felt so frustrated, Louisa.”

“I want this,” but before he can retort, or even grin, she pulls on his hair, bringing their faces close again. Legs part even more and the heels of her naked feet end up digging onto the small of his back. She braces a hand behind her, on the desk, but it is enough to grind back, to trace the shape of his engorged cock with the whole of her core. “But so do you. So get on with it, Mr. Morningside.”

This time, it is not Louisa the one muttering a noise, a curse. It is _him_.

She does not let him move much, never releasing his hair, but with no apparent issues, he has enough space to pull himself out. She dares not look at his hand, or what he holds, she just licks her lips and nods her head. A second reassurance. Come morning, she might regret this. But not right now.

Never in a million years had she thought to lose her purity with someone like him, but here she is, ready to accept him and whatever this Devil of a man might offer.

“If it hurts—”

Louisa only shakes her head, impatient. Forgetting any sort of decorum, her touches travel beneath his undershirt, until blunt nails dig onto his back and bring him closer. Even more so. _Closer. Closer. Closer._

It seems to be enough for him, for next time she feels something down there, it is the tip of his cock caressing the entrance of her labia, the soft flesh stretchng to let him in; pressing a little, and a little bit more, until there is burning. She cannot help the mewl, it hurts, but he keeps on going, goaded, no doubt, by the teeth that now bite onto his shoulder.

She has no idea how much it lasts, she just know it hurts.

A few times, she feels him tense up, hesitate, and then continue. He is well endowed, she can feel it perfectly, but he never pushes faster, nor harder, neither does he rush the process.

By the time his pelvis collides with hers, he is also panting. Growling? Oh dears, she never thought a _growling_ man would be attractive in any way, but here he is.

“Move.” Louisa pleads, whispers. “Move, Mr. Morningside.”

And he does, for now, surprisingly wordless.

She would have loved to satirize him for it, but she can’t. Not when he starts to thrust in earnest, hard enough that there are clapping sounds around them, joining in the noise (she will never forget the momentary panic at the thought of someone walking in on them, but like she said, her worry is _momentary_ ). His mouth is on her throat now, easy feat when her neck is craned, tensed by the immense pleasure that quickly overcomes the pain.

Their bodies cannot be closer, a tangle of clothing and limbs, hands that clasp onto strong shoulders and mouths that find any available patch of flesh to mark and bite onto. The mahogany desk beneath them creaks time to time, as if lamenting its poor state, or how dirty it’s becoming. Any rougher and it might crumble beneath them.

He increases his pace, until those growls come back and she can feel the jolts of pleasure running down her spine, making her arch and moan; those sultry noises curl around every vertebrae, set every nerve ending on fire. Pain is long gone, all she knows is how good he feels.

“Henry… Henry ki—”

“Oh, Louisa, _finally_.”

Unfinished sentences, but she is not one to complain. Not when those lips are on hers, mirroring the savagery that keeps on moving his hips. The strokes of his tongue are slow now, nothing to compare to the ones it had delivered to her labia moments ago— but it is great and forceful and deep, eventually, Louisa lets her body speak its own language.

She pushes back, she accepts what he’s giving her and, in return, he holds onto the desk with long nailed hands— _claws_ , she realizes, at some point.

He is so lost, she cannot even doubt many more of his bestial allures are showing.

But, does she care?

“Henry, I feel, I feel—”

“Shh, dear Louisa, I have you. _I have you_ , dear.”

**››››››››**

“Don’t stay away too long,” the Devil says, drifting towards the door. He pauses and looks over his shoulder at her. “You belong here in Coldthistle House.”**

There are no more words exchanged, no more looks.

Past night activities seem forgotten, but it is clear they are not. She aches with every step she takes and there is a high collar that hides grand portion of the man’s throat where, no doubt, marks of her teeth lay.

She goes away from Coldthistle House, as she said she would. With no intention to come back, but with a clear head of what she’s left behind, trapped behind a green door: a _memoir_.

**Author's Note:**

> * George Bremerton, page 383. House of Furies.  
> ** Henry Morningside, page 401. House of Furies.


End file.
